


Bloodshot & Beat (And Never So Alive)

by vipertooths



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (to make him sleep. nothing bad happens.), Bottom Will, Domesticity, Fluff, Gratuitous Bed Scenes, Happy Ending, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Alternating, Physical hurt/comfort, Post S3, Riding, Sexual Content, Top Hannibal, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 04:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11097063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipertooths/pseuds/vipertooths
Summary: It is a particular talent of Hannibal’s to make everything sound beautiful, to look at the dark or the gruesome and see potential, to make art of whatever he touches. The ability is disquieting in its effect on Will, in the way it makes him feel less like a monster, even though he knows he is.This is something no one else can touch; no matter how close someone succeeds in getting to him, they would never know him as completely. Hannibal has always been the exception to the rule.





	Bloodshot & Beat (And Never So Alive)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Obviously Will and Hannibal’s relationship is nowhere near healthy. I do not condone such things in real life. I imagine y’all know this since you clicked on a hannigram fic, but, y’know, just putting it out there. 
> 
> *Fic title from Cold Arms by Mumford & Sons, a befitting hannigram song.
> 
> *The ‘drowning instinct’ I mention is sourced from a fiction novel of the same name.
> 
> *Have you ever been in love? quote by Neil Gaiman.
> 
> This story starts post fall, where Will and Hannibal have relocated to an isolated cabin to heal.
> 
> TY to Sin for being my hannigram enabler. I hope y'all enjoy my wishful thinking.

Will stands at the edge of the room, staring blankly out of the window and into the surrounding trees. The dusk unsettles him, seemingly innocuous, but a sign of darkness to come. He blinks and suddenly night has fallen, the dark slithering its way around everything without his noticing, as per usual.

Taking a steadying breath, he turns away from the window, eyes straying to the empty half of the only bed in the cabin. Hannibal lies under the covers, open and vulnerable, belying his predatory nature. Will envies the doctor’s peaceful rest, wishing he could get some of his own. He considers attempting sleep on the sofa, then lets the notion go with relative ease, his feet already moving him toward the mattress. It seems disingenuous to forgo this small pleasure, ridiculous to deny any of his feelings at this point.

The truth of the matter is that he wants to be near Hannibal, to feel the man’s skin and let the warmth remind him that they are both alive. The guilt and frustration that used to flood him at these thoughts no longer comes, replaced with relief at finally being honest with himself.

He lies down on his side and reaches out, the simple want to touch dictating his movements. His fingers ghost over the side of Hannibal’s face, from jaw to cheekbone. When he pulls away, there's an immediate urge to return to his ministrations, a compulsion to memorize Hannibal’s features through touch alone. It should be worrying, and perhaps that will catch up with him later; right now, he simply accepts it and slides his hand over Hannibal’s throat. Blood pumps under his palm, a calming rhythm that lulls him not into sleep, but at least closer to it than he’s been in weeks.

+

Hannibal blinks drowsily at the ceiling for several seconds before he realizes that it is unfamiliar. He recalls his and Will’s fall, but nothing after the event. Imagining the injuries he must have sustained on top of the bullet wound, he tests each limb, finding it impossible to move his right arm without considerable pain. As he is cataloging the damage, a small sniff alerts him to another’s presence. He becomes aware that the warm pressure on his neck is in fact a hand.

He turns his head just enough to see the body parallel his own, and his heart rate picks up slightly. Will, his beautiful Will, lies next to him, alive and breathing. The cut Francis made on the bluff is stark against the man’s unmarred skin, resembling a grisly half smile. He lifts his left hand and places it over the one on his neck, causing Will’s eyes to startle open. There is a moment that they simply stare at one another, almost as if they are both unsure as to the reality of the situation.

Then, those ocean eyes shutter and the grip around his throat tightens. Hannibal wonders idly if he’s survived all he has just to die at the mercy of Will Graham, and finds the idea not only unsurprising, but fitting.

But Will’s hand goes lax, thumb instead petting the length of his throat as if in apology. It sends small ripples of pleasure through him, this willing intimacy.

“I want to hate you,” Will says, gaze trained on his fingers. “But I know it wouldn't help. I would still miss you, still want to run away with you, just like before.”

The admission sparks a fire in Hannibal’s gut, vindication and possessiveness flaring up inside of him. Will’s eyes dart upward, and he lets out a soft snort.

“Don't look so full of yourself,” he mumbles.

“I am,” Hannibal speaks, throat raw and sore, “selfishly, happy.”

They lie there, unmoving, until sleep tugs at him once again. When he awakens next, the room is silent but for his own breathing, and Will is gone.

+

Another morning comes without fanfare and Will stares at the wall for a long time, trying to figure out his own tangled mess of emotions. Eventually, he gives up and heads to the kitchenette, pulling a can of soup out of the cupboard and heating it up on the stove. When it comes to a boil, he dishes it into a bowl and lets it cool as he washes the pot. He wonders how much Hannibal misses cooking, but that leads to thoughts he doesn't want to brood over.

With an emptied mind, he grabs the bowl and makes his way to the bedroom. When he turns on the light, Hannibal is already awake, and he feels a vague sense of guilt at the thought of the man sitting in the dark, alone and unable to leave.

“I brought food,” he says as way of introduction, “in the basest meaning of the word.”

“Sustenance, perhaps,” Hannibal offers, affection crinkling the skin by his eyes. Most would look at his crimes and doubt the presence of anything so warm, save when it’s being purposefully manufactured. He used to have the same doubts himself, used to wonder if their friendship was nothing but a ruse, nothing but mild entertainment for the local psychopath, but he knows better now.

“That seems more fitting. Can you sit up?”

Hannibal uses his left arm to shimmy up against the pillows and headboard, though it obviously causes him pain. When he settles, he gives Will a clinical once over. “How are you feeling? You seem to be in better shape than I am.”

“I'll survive. You took most of the damage. Were out of it for a few days, mostly sleeping, occasionally awake, if not lucid.” Will grabs the stool from the corner of the room and places it next to the bed as he speaks. “There’s painkillers in the drawer if you need them, glass of water on the stand.”

“I appreciate your care.”

He sighs, swirling the spoon around the bowl. “Well, _am_ the one that tipped us off of the cliff.”

“I do not begrudge you that.”

Steeling himself, he takes a hard look into Hannibal’s eyes, trying to gauge the sincerity of the statement. It leaves him almost shaken to realize its truth, the confirmation that Hannibal knew exactly what was going through his head.

“You shouldn't give someone so much power to hurt you.”

“Are you talking to me, or to yourself?”

 _Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore._ “Love takes hostages,” he says finally. “It gets inside you.”

“A disheartening description, though apt.” Hannibal’s fingers flex almost imperceptibly, a movement Will only notices because he happens to be staring at them. He wonders if Hannibal is restraining himself from touching, if the inexorable pull between them isn't a one-way street.

He shakes himself free of his musings and lifts the spoon from the soup. “It’s going to get cold at this rate.”

Hannibal acquiesces, allowing himself to be fed without further comment. It’s a strange situation, and Will can't help but feel awkward doing it. He doesn't feel like much of a caretaker, despite the years spent with Walter, and his persistent dreams of Abigail. Images flicker to the forefront of his mind unbidden and he swallows down the grief and anger that are dredged up alongside them. If he had chosen differently, if he had just taken Hannibal’s offer when it was presented, Abigail would still be alive. It makes him ache.

The clang of metal on porcelain draws his attention down to the empty bowl in his hand. He doesn't know how many minutes pass before he speaks again. “We aren't good for each other. Whatever this is, it's not healthy.”

Hannibal answers without pause, as if they were already in the middle of a conversation, rather than sitting in silence. “What sets one apart from others is not necessarily a fault.”

“Not necessarily,” Will says, and it’s clear what he’s leaving out of the statement: not necessarily, but it is in this case.

“We all have our faults, Will. The beauty of humanity lies in accepting that fact and offering companionship to another despite it.”

It is a particular talent of Hannibal’s to make everything sound beautiful, to look at the dark or the gruesome and see potential, to make art of whatever he touches. The ability is disquieting in its effect on Will, in the way it makes him feel less like a monster, even though he knows he is.

This is something no one else can touch; no matter how close someone succeeds in getting to him, they would never know him as completely. Hannibal has always been the exception to the rule. It’s comforting, to be seen, to be understood, and not to be damned for it.

“You look tired,” Hannibal says, and Will can't help the dry laugh that escapes him.

“I don't get much sleep.”

“It may be in your best interest to lie back down. Your body needs rest.”

A fair point, though it wouldn't do him any good. He nods anyway and stands, turning on his heel to leave the room. His name is called a second later, stopping him in the doorway. When he looks over his shoulder, he’s not surprised to see Hannibal staring at him expectantly.

The silence drags on, a wordless stand off.

“On the bed, Will.”

After a moment's hesitation, he walks out, beelining for the kitchenette. He deposits the bowl in the sink and splashes cold water on his face, deliberating. At least a half hour has passed before he finds himself walking back toward the bedroom.

Neither of them speak as Will lies down on the left side of the bed, a parallel of the previous night. Somehow, he manages to sleep.

+

The world, as it's wont to do, keeps spinning. Life continues. They build for themselves their own bubble of existence in the middle of the woods, away from the foils of humanity. Will never addresses the fact that it cannot last and Hannibal sees no point in ruining the illusion of simple domesticity that they currently entertain, temporary as it may be. He focuses on recovery, the healing slow going but going nonetheless.

The cabin is near to a river and equipped with a fishing pole and lures, allowing Will both a hobby and a means of putting food on the table. He hunts small prey when he can, but the fish is more easily accessible. Hannibal finds that he cannot complain about the repetitive meals when faced with the procurable alternatives.

They create a makeshift sling for his arm and he eventually is able to go about daily tasks without help. He takes over the cooking, naturally, and wonders if Will would so readily consume the food if it wasn't a certainty where the meat on their plates had come from. He supposes the question will be answered in due time.

They are never physically intimate as they were on the night that he had woken, only touching each other in passing. The casual contact is reassuring in its own way, born of subconscious desire, but it does not quell the want for more. It is nearly a physical ache, more so than ever before, because he now knows the satisfaction of having Will’s body pressed against his own.

“What are you thinking about?” Will asks one night, blanketed by darkness, voice loud in an otherwise quiet room.

Hannibal sees no value in lying. “Touching you.”

Will’s breath hitches and once again evens out. “Care to expand on that?”

“There is little more to say. I am not thinking of touching you in any specific manner, only of the act itself.”

“So why aren't you?”

Unable to parse if the sentence is a challenge or mere curiosity, he chooses his next words with care. “I have been under the assumption that such an advance would not be welcome.”

The sound of shifting preludes a gentle sweep across his abdomen, far more tentative than Hannibal would have expected. He brings his left hand up to twine his fingers with Will’s, well aware of the fact that he had not been disabused of the notion that imparting a touch of his own accord would be unwanted. The silent verification does not bother him overmuch. He shall take from Will what he can get and patiently await further development.

+

The shower sprays water over Will, the pressure a bit too dismal, the temperature a bit too scalding. He rolls his neck and shoulders, attempting to ease some tension from them. Hannibal can be heard in the kitchen, the cabin walls not thick enough to block out the sounds of dinner preparation.

When he’d woken up in the early evening, disoriented, two things became immediately clear. The first was that he had to have been drugged to have slept for so long. The second was that Hannibal was gone.

There was, of course, an immediate panic, but he had kept it under his skin, not wanting to make any rash assumptions. The more logical part of his mind calmed him enough to not let his fantasies run away with him.

In the end, his patience was rewarded when Hannibal walked through the door with two baskets of fresh ingredients. Apparently, he’d walked to a relatively nearby Farmer’s Market, having grown tired of the pre-packaged and processed food they’d been dealing with.

Will rationalized that he should've been angry, at least some, for Hannibal drugging and leaving him. If anyone had found them, he would've been extremely vulnerable, not that he thought anyone would. Not to mention that Hannibal could have given them up if anyone at the market had recognized him. But the anger evaded Will’s grasp, the reward outweighing the initial risk; he _had_ gotten some much needed rest, Hannibal returned, and they now had a few days worth of fresh fruits, vegetables, and herbs.

He could've pinned Hannibal to the door and kissed him until his lungs gave up, wanted to. Instead, he’d simply sighed and retreated to the shower.

The heat against his skin begins to become unbearable, so he finally reaches for the knob and turns it down just slightly. It has the unfortunate but unsurprising effect of making the water too cold; he hasn't managed a comfortable shower here even once, the finicky knob switching from one extreme to the other at barely a passing graze.

As he begins lathering himself, his thoughts drift away from memories and into more dangerous places. He hears Hannibal’s voice in his ear as if the doctor were in the stall with him, and his eyes slip shut. He wants. He wants. He wants.

When the last of the soap is washed from his body, he blindly reaches for the shower knob again, turning it incrementally back up. He’s made a decision, and he’d rather not see to it with numb fingers.

+

"Would you mind peeling the carrots?" Hannibal asks as Will comes to stand behind him. When he is met with silence, he turns to regard the man, flushed and damp from bathing. Before he can speak again, Will has crowded into his space, kissing him with a single-minded urgency.

He does not waste time with surprise, shifting until his back is pressed against the counter, the hand unoccupied with a knife curling in Will's hair. His eyes shut and he gives himself over to the kiss, to the grip on his waist and the hot tongue sliding against his own.

It is several minutes before they break apart, Will's eyes dark with hunger, pupils blown and lids hooded. The sight is beautiful.

"Alana once said I was experiencing the drowning instinct." His voice is rough and low, as if he's already falling apart, taking Hannibal's self control with him.

“When drowning doesn't look like drowning. Was the water a metaphor for me or for your mind?”

His answering smile is predatory, more a baring of teeth than anything else. “Does it matter?”

Hannibal silently concedes that, at least in this instance, it likely does not. “And your opinion on the matter?”

“It’s not the drowning that makes your chest feel like it’s going to cave in or your head feel like it’s going to explode.” He leans in until their lips are just brushing. “It’s fighting it.”

He shifts to mouth along Hannibal's jaw, down his throat. A press of teeth, a flash of tongue, a breathy exhale. Hannibal tilts his head back in answer, exposing a greater expanse of skin, jugular naked and unprotected. It speaks of trust on perhaps a reckless level, to lay your neck in the mouth of a biting thing and expect to live through it. And Will does bite, hard enough to sting, to bruise, and Hannibal knows that it is not enough.

Will's hand travels up to meet his on the counter and pulls the knife away by the blade. He watches the blood begin to well on Will's palm, watches as it's lifted to his lips. He licks a line from wrist to fingertip and feels more than hears the rumble of a low groan against his neck.

He guides them toward the island, where he can lift Will onto the marble without worrying about the cabinets overhead. Will pulls away to remove his shirt, the blood from his hand staining the hem, and then reaches for Hannibal's. Once it’s off, he leans in again, catching Hannibal’s mouth in another demanding kiss.

He shifts forward, the hard line of his erection apparent through his boxer briefs. Hannibal’s own twitches in response and he lets out a low growl, hands inching up Will’s thighs, trailing over the goosebumps. Legs wrap around him as Will presses forward, seeking friction, and it becomes clear that they’ll need to relocate to the bedroom. He backs up and Will slides forward with him, eyes fluttering open in question. Sliding his hands under the other man, Hannibal hoists him off the counter, muscles flexing with the strain; his right arm is still not back to what it once was. Will snakes his arms around Hannibal’s neck and crosses his ankles, easing some of the burden. He stares intently, and Hannibal stares back, familiar enough with the cabin’s layout to make it to the bed without trouble.

When he’s set down, he doesn't break eye contact, even as his fingers work to unbutton and unzip Hannibal’s jeans. The world feels cut open, everything between them laid bare, raw. He pauses, emotions turning like violent waves in his eyes, fierce and tumultuous. “I forgive you.”

Hannibal’s chest constricts, and he wonders at how different it is to hear those words spoken face to face. He places a hand on Will’s unscarred cheek, sweeping his thumb across the smooth skin. “And I you.”

Will’s fingers hook onto his briefs and he tugs them off with the jeans. The air is chilled against his bare skin, but he pays it no mind. Will artlessly divests of his own briefs and moves back on the bed, a cue for Hannibal to join him.

He reaches for the nightstand, opening the drawer and pulling out the small container of coconut oil which had previously been in one of the cupboards. As Hannibal joins him on the bed, eyebrow raised, he considers the container with a similar expression.

“I decided before I decided,” he says finally, proferring it out to be taken. Hannibal obliges, unscrewing the lid and dipping his fingers in before setting it aside.

“Sometimes we know what we want before we allow ourselves to want it.” He catalogues every inch of Will’s body, moving forward between his legs, running a hand up the inside of his thigh, committing to memory the hard planes of his chest, his soft but lean stomach, the ghosting of hair from his bellybutton to his groin. Even the movement of his muscles is bewitching, the way they tense at even the slightest touch.

“Tease,” he huffs, shifting somewhat restlessly. “You're dripping that on the bed.”

Hannibal smiles at his impatience. “I have a feeling more will find its way to the sheets before the night is over.”

He rolls his eyes, exasperated but amused, and sits up, grabbing a pillow and placing it behind Hannibal before pointedly pressing him back. Hannibal takes the cue, lying down and relinquishing control. Will takes hold of his hand, pulling it to the head of his cock and stroking down the shaft, then back up. Once satisfied, Will guides their fingers to his own body, sliding them in between his cheeks. Hannibal rubs his middle and index finger across the ring of muscles a few times, enjoying the way Will’s breath quickens, before inserting them.

He could draw this out for so long, let himself burn every touch into both of their memories, but Will is clearly too impatient for such an endeavor. Next time, perhaps.

He makes quick work with his fingers before pulling them out and replacing them with his cock. Will clenches momentarily around him before relaxing and allowing him in completely. He stays still, letting his lover set the pace.

It’s clear that this is new to him, that he is mimicking women he has been with, rather than drawing from experience. The heady possessiveness Hannibal feels over him doubles in intensity. It is a beautiful gift to receive, and Hannibal tucks the memory away in his memory palace to later cherish.

“You are beautiful,” he says, sliding a palm over Will’s thigh to his pelvis to the scar across his stomach.

Will lets out a breathy chuckle. “What a sweet talker.”

Hannibal smiles and leans up, using his free hand to keep him steady. He captures Will’s mouth in a kiss, the taste of fruit and mint toothpaste mixing between them. Will grinds into his lap and moans, setting his nerve endings alight. Nails rake down his back and come to rest on his hips.

He pulls away just a fraction and moves the hand on Will’s stomach to his lower back. “You are easy to sweet talk; I simply have to speak my mind.”

Will pants, focusing his attention on the movement of their bodies rather than a reply. The sounds, of skin on skin, of mingled breath, of creaking bed, converge into one of the most breathtaking harmonies that Hannibal has heard. It is a song of passion, made unique by the both of them in this very moment of time. An exact replication will never be made.

The climax to their a capella is dominated by Will’s vocality and it reverberates through Hannibal’s chest. He listens reverently, heart beating out a syncopation.

As they lie breathless on top of the covers, he turns to Will, who is already beginning to doze off. He rests his arm across Will’s abdomen and sets aside thoughts of having to leave this place. For now, they are content; the rest of the world can wait.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos = 1 pray for hannibal s4  
> comment = 2 prays
> 
> god is listening folks
> 
>  
> 
> Tumblr: [trashkinq](http://trashkinq.tumblr.com)


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